Classic Poem

Here tradesmen, 'tis plain, at no roguery stop,
They adulterate everything they've in their shop;
You must buy what they sell, and they'll sell what they please,
And they would, if they could, sell the moon for green cheese.

Sing tantararara, rogues all, rogues all,
Sing tantararara, rogues all.

Now it is well know imitation's the rage:
Everything's imitated in this rare old age;
There's tea, coffee, beer, butter, gin, milk, in brief,
No doubt they'll soon imitate mutton and beef.

The grocer sells ash leaves and sloe leaves for tea,
Tinged with Dutch pink and verdigris, just like bohea;
What sloe poison means Slomon now has found out;
We shall all to a T be poisoned, no doubt.

Some grocers for pepper sell trash called PD;
Burnt horse beans for coffee — how can such things be?
I really do think those who make such a slip
And treat us like horses, deserve a horse-whip.

The milkman, although he is honest, he vows,
Milks his pump night and morn quite as oft as his cows;
Claps plenty of chalk in your score — what a bilk —
And, egad, claps you plenty of chalk in your milk.

The baker will swear all his bread's made of flour,
But just mention alum, you'll make him turn sour;
His ground bones and pebbles turn men skin and bone:
We ask him for bread and he gives us a stone.

The butcher puffs up tough mutton like lamb,
And oft for South Down sells an old mountain ram;
Bleeds poor worn-out cows to pass off for white veal,
And richly deserves to die by his own steel.

A slippery rogue is the cheesemonger, zounds,
Who with kitchen stuff oft his butter compounds;
His fresh eggs are laid o'er the water, we know,
For which, faith, he over the water should go.

The brewer's a chemist, and that is quite clear,
We soon find no hops have hopped into his beer;
'Stead of malt he from drugs brews his porter and swipes —
No wonder so oft we all get the gripes.

The tobacconist smokes us with short-cut of weeds,
And finds his returns of such trash still succeeds;
With snuff of ground glass and of dust we are gulled:
For serving our nose so, his nose should be pulled.

The wine merchant, that we abroad may not roam,
With sloe juice and brandy makes port up at home;
Distillers their gin have with vitriol filled;
'Tis clear they're in roguery double-distilled.

Thus we rogues have in grain and in tea too, that's clear;
Don't think I suppose we have any rogues here.
The company present's excepted, you know,
Here's wishing all rogues their deserts they must have.